


about my chest (more specifically, my heart)

by burnsidesjulia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattoos, basically a whole load of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8071630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnsidesjulia/pseuds/burnsidesjulia
Summary: Alex finds his first tattoo on his ribs, just between the third and fourth.

  Aaron tries to hide it.
 or, the soulmate tattoo au.





	

Alex finds his first tattoo on his ribs, just between the third and fourth. It’s small, small enough that he thinks it’s a smudge of ink that _somehow_ got under his shirt, but when he scrubs at it for a while with his shittiest, scratchiest loofah and it doesn’t budge, he knows. He scrambles out of the shower so fast he almost smacks his head on the rod, then the side of the tub, then the cabinet and the counter, skids across the tile on wet feet like some sort of fucked up ice dancer. When he steadies himself, Alex stands dripping wet in front of the mirror and stares himself down. Everything he’s always seen is there; the clear, tanned skin all over, his sloping shoulders, the soft curve of his stomach, and a small black marking just below his chest, between the third and fourth rib. He wipes steam from the mirror, watches the water drip away from his handprint. A neat, cleanly lined knife, tip pointed toward his arm, sharp side pointed downward. There is nothing special about it. It is hardly even noticeable. Still, his heart has crept into his throat and is stuck on the back of his tongue.

At some point today, Alex met his soulmate.

-

Aaron tries to hide it.

He’s never been an expressive person, some people have the nerve to call his resting face ‘bitchy’ or ‘intimidating’, but he still doesn’t think this is the price he should pay for it. When he gets his first tattoo, it blossoms on his cheekbone like a patch of black blush that he can’t blend away. He hates it there, but supposes there could be worse places to have it. He can’t think of any, but surely there must be an alternative that even he wouldn’t prefer.

His tattoo isn’t awful, persay, but it’s strange and he’s not sure what to make of it or whoever caused it. It’s one smooth, curving line like a tilde, smaller strokes pulled off of its top to form a feather. _A quill,_ Theo specifies when he has the nerve to show her, to wipe away the makeup he puts over it that doesn’t quite match his skin tone. She traces a gentle fingertip over the curve of it several times, says that the tip is sharpened like that for a reason, that it’s flattened out to be a writing utensil. He likes that explanation a little more, because he’s always like writing, too, and he thinks maybe that’s why whoever put it there put it there. He’s not sure if the tattoos are a choosing thing, or if when you cause it you get to pick what you make, but he sure hopes so. He thinks, if he ever marked someone, he’d leave something beautiful. A flower is old-fashioned, but it’s a good way to say what he feels.

Aaron traces the quill with his own fingertips to lull himself off to sleep. He’s happy that he has it. At least that means that he has a soulmate; not everyone is so lucky, and he’d began to worry. He hopes that whoever it is that marked him, if he marked them back, he hopes that they got it in a more subtle spot.

-

Alex works retail, and so he has no idea who he’s looking for. There’s no way of telling if other people’s tattoos are fresh or not, or if they’re for you or someone else or whatever. People have told him that when you meet them a second time, you just _know_. Alex does not just _know_. He feels lost behind the counter of this stupid coffee shop.

He doesn’t have the option of going to the bathroom and checking himself for new tattoos every time he meets someone. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He hopes that when he meets them, whoever _they_ are, he’ll just know.

-

Aaron retraces his steps from the day he got it. As scared as he is to find out who he’s supposed to be with, he has to know. He’s not sure what exactly he needs to know, but. Still. He covers the tattoo when he goes. He doesn’t want people to ask. No one has any boundaries when it comes to the markings, and he’s not sure what he’ll have to tell them yet. 

He went to work the day he got it, so he checks there. There’s people he knows it’s not from, like Thomas and James and Bellamy, and then there’s those he has to wonder. Angelica Schuyler. She’s pretty and kind enough, smarter than most everyone he knows, but when he asks her, she rolls up her sleeves to show off the rings around her forearms of ivy and dainty flowers. Maria gave those to her. Maria hears her from across the room, turns her head toward them and smiles brilliantly from under her red lips. Aaron watches a new bud open slowly on the ivy chains, dark ink crawling across Angelica’s skin. Beautiful, in a haunting way. He wonders if he feather came about like that, if whoever his soulmate is saw it spread across his cheek in one smooth stroke. He thanks Angelica, moves on.

He knows it isn’t Thomas, but asks him anyway. Thomas is unhelpful and chiding, playfully teasing, but James comes in and gently coaxes him to help Aaron. The one Thomas shows him is on his shoulder blade, and he has to fight halfway out of his shirt to show Aaron. It’s a grand portrait, a ship surrounded by curling, white-capped waves that almost seem to shift if Aaron looks long enough. James explains that everyone’s markings come about differently; all in one spot, or scattered into separate pieces. Aaron hopes his will be separate; he really doesn’t want a sprawling landscape on his face, as intricate and beautiful as this is. James sweeps his fingers over the waves. A new reckless curl of water emerges from the pool.

He asks all over. Everyone either has no marks or what seems like millions to Aaron. He is no further in his search after several days of asking around, asking almost everyone. Not quite everyone, though, because if his tattoo is from John Laurens, he’s going to give up on love forever.

-

 

Lafayette agrees to show Alex his own markings if it’ll shut him the fuck up. Alex spends a week insisting that Lafayette is his soulmate, that they need to make out _immediately_ to make up for lost time, and Lafayette is finally tired of it. He rolls his jeans up past his knee with great difficulty, and just above the cap is his tattoo, faded and hardly new. Two hands clasped tightly, both with a formal cuff around the wrist. Lafayette stares wistfully down at it, smiles. After a long pause, he says that his wife, Adrienne, is still living in France. The adoration in his voice is all the confirmation Alex needs. He and Lafayette spend the rest of the night sipping marshmallow flavored vodka and talking. He feels like maybe, he doesn’t know his friends as well as he thought he did.

Alex asks everyone he can think of. Which, to be fair, isn’t many people; he’s still fairly new to New York, still pretty terrible at meeting people. He asks Hercules, who shows him the wings at the nape of his neck. Washington he doesn’t ask, but they’re on his hands and obvious. When he comes in to get his coffee, Alex scans the tall pine trees stretching across the backs of his hands. He doesn’t see Laurens often because of their conflicting schedules, because of Alex working weekends and doing school, but when he does, Laurens is more than eager to show off his tattoo. Even more, he’s loudly claiming that it’s also fairly new. Alex’s breath catches, and Laurens shows him the arrow above his elbow. Alex wonders, for a brief second, if Laurens could be the one. He and Laurens know each other well, certainly love each other to some degree, but could it really be that he had this in front of him the whole time and didn’t know? Alex likes to think he’s a fairly intuitive person, that he can read situations well. He’d like to believe he would just know when he meets that person. He’s not sure John is it.

The skin between his ribs pulses, and he runs to the bathroom to check it. Nothing has changed. He strips down and checks the rest of himself too before he is sated.

-

Aaron decides he has to ask John. Not because he thinks John is his soulmate. Just because- well, because he’s _worried_ that John is his soulmate.

John’s never liked him, he guesses. He’s never really liked John either, so it doesn’t matter, but they still wind up talking from time to time. John is loud and abrasive, fighty, always trying to make himself louder, stronger, better than everyone else. More obnoxious than everyone else. He’s just in it for the fight, not for the reason behind it. A spoiled rich kid. The list goes on. Aaron doesn’t want John Laurens to be his ultimate destiny.

He corners John in the break room. John isn’t a lawyer like him, and he isn’t a secretary, and Aaron can’t say with complete certainty that he knows what John’s job actually is around here, but they’re in the same place, crowded by the shitty coffee machine that takes thirty plus minutes to make a pot. The water seeps through the filter slowly beside them.

“Hey, John,” Aaron says casually. The makeup on his cheek feels impossibly cakey. Laurens turns to him, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep, but clearly no less alert. He hums under his breath. “Hey, Burr.” He used the last name on purpose. A warning, like a snake rattling its tail. Drip, drip.

“Listen, this is a weird question but I- I’ve asked everyone else I know, and I think I should-” Aaron is rambling. He never rambles. At least, he doesn’t think he does. The wary look John is giving him suggests otherwise. He clears his throat, looks back at the coffee pot, the slow dribble of the liquid. “Spit it out, man. We don’t have all day.” The coffee pot suggests otherwise, as well.

“Alright, fine. I was wondering about your tattoos.” John’s eyes shoot open, and he turns to face Aaron full front. “Christ, Burr. Please don’t tell me what I think you’re telling me.” Aaron’s heart drops to the floor. “So you have a new one, too.” His voice is thick in his throat, like honey coming up. Drip, drip, drip.

“Yes, but I- I don’t- Not you.” He scratches at the back of his neck, the loose braid swinging in his hair. He shakes his head. “Listen, Burr. I know this guy.” Aaron feels the breath come back into him in one glorious rush. “And he gave it to you?” he suggests hopefully, but John shakes his head, waves his hands in dismissal. “No. Maybe. Not important.” He scratches at his freckled cheek. “He’s got a new one, too. And he works at that coffee shop you go to so much. So I figure, maybe-” John shrugs loosely. “I dunno. It’s worth a shot, man. But I promise, it’s not me.” He sweeps a hand back through the frizzy curls at his crown and lets out a sigh. “Jeez.”

Several moments of silence pass. The coffee pot keeps working at its slow, staccato pace. John looks at Aaron out of the corner of his eye. “Where’s yours, by the way?” Aaron is shocked into honesty by the friendliness of the question. He points with one finger at the bone of his left cheek. John leans in to see it, moves around a little to catch different lights before giving up. “I don’t see it,” he says, and Aaron feels his ears go hot. “I cover it up,” he says. John cracks a smile, crooked and showing just a few teeth. “Huh. Burr wears makeup. Go figure.” He turns back to the coffee pot and says nothing else. Aaron leaves him in the room, silent except for the steady dripping.

-

Alex is working the register again today, keeping a mental catalog of the people who pass him. Something he read on the internet says that the skin gets really hot wherever a new tattoo is forming, so he’s only using his right hand to do his job, his left pressed to his ribcage like he’s in pain. He stays just as cold as before, his fingertips freezing against his warm middle. He’s holding up the line by counting out change with just five fingers. He gives up on the heat thing. He doesn’t know if the new tattoo will show up on his rib anyway.

The bell overhead the front door rings. A group of people come in, likely all strangers but travelling like a pack to conserve heat. It’s nice inside, and so they separate like streams off the ocean, trickling in and out of cozy window seats. The line fills up. Alex counts change with both hands, and feels nothing.

Several of the people in line are attractive, seem nice enough, but none of them ring a bell. None of them seem familiar. He always imagined seeing his soulmate would feel like coming home. He just feels further than ever.

He’s distracted, a little spacey. He asks for the name to put on the cup. He scribbles it down on a pad of paper, probably misspells it. Three minutes later, he’s calling out the order, _one for Erin_. A man comes to the counter and takes the cup, then clears his throat politely. Alex didn’t think that was possible. Still, Alex responds in his typical fashion, a little snippier than is entirely necessary. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Not entirely,” the man replies. “But my name is spelled double a, r-o-n. In case you were wondering.” He still sounds calm and nice. Alex marvels a little at that. Alex smiles. “Well, mister double a, r-o-n, I could fix it for you if you’d like.” Alex looks up to meet the man’s eyes. They remind him of a hurricane, the deep dark brown-golden color that he never quite shook from the dead silent eye of it. The color of a sky torn in two. Still, he smiles. “I’d appreciate it, but it’s really not necessary.” They’re holding up the line again. Almost flirting. Alex feels strange about this, considering his soulmate could be anywhere else in the world. In the room, even.

“No, I insist,” Alex says anyway, and wraps his fingers around the cup. He tugs it back toward him, poises the tip of his sharpie to draw a line through the wrong name. The man pulls it back. “No, _I_ insist. I hate to be a bother, mister-” he pauses, reads Alex’s name tag with a determined gleam in those shipwreck eyes- “Alexander.” Alex feels a smile spreading across his face. He plays along still. “No, really, it’s my job. Just let me-” He shifts his hand up a little to get a better grip, brushes knuckles with the man. The man’s hands are warm, like he just pulled them out of gloves. Alex’s fingers feel like they’re thawing instantly. And then it’s hot. Burning, fiery hot, almost painful, and he pulls back in alarm just a split second before the man does the same. They almost drop his coffee on the counter.

Stretching between his second and third knuckle, just a wisp of a mark, Alex watches a delicate shoot of lavender sprout up in the form of dark ink, stretching toward his palm like it thinks it’s the sun. Alex raises his eyes in amazement, finds the man staring down at his own hand. Across the inside of his index finger, a twirling ribbon that wasn’t there a second ago shows against the dark of his skin. They meet gazes again. Smile, bewildered and exhilarated. Alex is still tingling.

“What’d you say your name was again?” he asks the man breathlessly, because he really did just forget it, he's so distracted. His whole body is buzzing excitedly. The eyes and mouth smile together. “Aaron. And you’re Alexander. No?”

“Yes,” Alex responds, laughing just a little. This feels like maybe, it was too easy. “And I get off at four.”

“Well, I hope I’ll see you then.” Alex nods quickly. “You will! You will.” Aaron smiles, scratches at his cheek. “It was nice meeting you, Alexander.” He pulls his hand away. Alex can see, just barely there on the sharp part of his cheekbone, the finely curved shape of a feather. A quill, to be more specific. Alex feels his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to see more of it. He wants to touch it, wants to caress it and _know_ that he put it there. He stutters under his breath for a second, and when he gets his voice back, Alex is a little too loud. “It was nice meeting you too!” He jerks the cup back towards himself, turns his back to the counter and scribbles out his number. That’s the least he can do. He doesn’t want to lose this man again.

Aaron takes his cup back, runs his index finger gently over the looping numbers. Alex stares at him, at the ribbon on his finger and Alex lets his jaw hang slightly agape, totally gawking. It’d be rude if it didn’t feel so natural. He’s in awe of this man. God, he’s so _lucky_. When Aaron turns to smile at him again, even brighter than before, the quill on his cheek puffs out toward him. It’s so simple, but so impossibly special. And if Alex weren’t in public, at work, still holding up the line, he’d toss his shirt up over his head and show off the space between his third and fourth rib. Soon. Maybe after work.

Aaron doesn’t seem like he needs to see it to be convinced. He’s still stroking the ribbon on his finger with the other hand when he leaves.

-

Sometime later that night, Alex kisses his soulmate for the first time. It’s quick and chaste and their noses are cold against each other’s faces, but it’s good. Aaron’s chest is warm against his. Aaron’s hands are wrapped up in and all around his. It feels entirely, perfectly right. And he just _knows_ , right away.

When they pull back, and then go in for more, the burning starts up again, softer this time but a definite. Alex checks later, while in a shower that doesn’t belong to him to see if anything new came. He just wants to know if that meant something, but he finds nothing new. He figures maybe, he’s just warming up for more.

**Author's Note:**

> hooray for cutesy dribble. i wrote this at 2am to cure some major writer's block. title credit to 'legit tattoo gun' by the front bottoms
> 
> as usual, the tumblr is @schuyburr. thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos or comments


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